


Still Waters

by ladyblahblah



Series: Through the Looking Glass [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:36:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones gets some quality time with the Orion spy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Waters

**Author's Note:**

> This is a deleted scene from _Though This Be Madness, Yet There is Method In't_ (insomuch as something almost three times as long as the original can be considered a deleted scene) and part of the Through the Looking Glass series.  Though that series is primarily devoted to disturbing depictions of slash relationships, this particular story skips over the slashy aspects in favor of being simply disturbing.  Sort of a Mirror!Bones character study.  Man, I don't even know.  Please keep in mind that I have no firsthand knowledge of either surgery or torture, and was thus just sort of making this up as I went along.  God help me.

 

 

 

_“The scientists of today think deeply instead of clearly. One must be sane to think clearly, but one can think deeply and be quite insane.” –Nikola Tesla_

 

 

Leonard McCoy firmly believes that one can not be a doctor without possessing, in some measure, the soul of an artist.

He’s well aware that that isn’t the impression he gives to most people.  His Sickbay is quiet and clean, his nurses terrifyingly efficient.  He’s neat, and gruff, and focused.  There is nothing in his life that’s purely decorative; oh, he collects what he considers art, but even those pieces are inherently functional.  So most people look at him and see a simple, methodical man, unromantic and happy with himself that way.  And he’s content to have them think that’s all there is to him because, for the most part, they’re right.

Until they’re on his table, and they discover that there’s more beneath the surface than he’s ever let them see.

The Orion spy is lying there now, bound and unmoving but for his eyes.  McCoy can feel his gaze tracking his movements, watching as he carefully lays out his instruments.  He smiles to himself a little.  His day, which had started out as grim as any other, had taken a definite turn for the better when he’d gotten the Captain’s page.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “you’ve really made my day.”  He chuckles under his breath as he inspects a bright blade for any signs of rust.  Finding none, he lays it on the tray with a satisfying _click_.  “I’ve never had the opportunity to study an Orion before.  Just a shame they couldn’t get me a female,” he sighs, still slightly disappointed.  There’s no response, and he levels his best disapproving scowl at his patient.  “You’re not just gonna lie there like a log, are you?  Gotta tell you, that won’t sit well with the Captain.  He’s excited to talk to you, y’know.”

“And if I do not talk?”  The Orion’s voice is oddly inflected, as though Standard isn’t his first language.  Interesting, but not McCoy’s business, precisely.  “You should know that I have been trained to withstand your Agony Booth.”

McCoy’s disdainful huff is as involuntary as his chuckle.  “You’ll talk,” he assures him.  “And yeah, there’s a chance you’ll end up in the Booth at some point, because god knows the Captain never listens to me about that.  Damn thing has no elegance to it.  Like hacking at a problem with a sword,” he mutters, mostly to himself now.  “And sure, yeah, sometimes that’s all well and good and exactly what you need.  But sometimes a situation requires a little bit more delicacy, you understand?  And when that happens, you don’t need a sword.”  The bright overhead light reflects off of the scalpel as he lifts it from the tray.  “You need something more delicate.”

He lets the man’s eyes linger on the instrument in his hand.  “Now, you’re gonna tell us what we wanna know.  If you tell us quickly then the Captain will be happy.”

“And if he’s happy, then what?  You let me go?” the Orion sneers, and McCoy’s laugh this time is full-throated, genuinely amused.

“Hell no, we’re not gonna let you go.  But if the Captain’s happy then _I’ll_ certainly be in a better mood.  He throws these tantrums, see—still too much of a kid, if you ask me.  Gets right under my skin and sets off my own temper.  And believe me.”  He sets the scalpel down again and picks up a pair of scissors.  “I’m a beast to be around when I’m riled.”

He starts to cut away the Orion’s clothing.  “Sorry about this.  But,” he smirks, “I guess it’s not like you’ll be needing any of this again.”

“I will not talk.”  He’s lying; it’s pitifully obvious that he’s lying, and if their situation were more of a traditional one McCoy would be disappointed.  Instead he just hums thoughtfully.

“We’ll see.”  The shirt is peeled away, and McCoy moves to the end of the table to remove his boots.  “You know, you’re lucky we were the ones who picked you up.  Most ships, they’d just toss you in the Booth, maybe smack you around a bit.  You’re not unattractive,” he muses, studying green skin and even features.  “They’d probably pass you around for a while.  But not here.”  He lands a friendly slap on the man’s bare stomach and begins to cut away his pants.

“I’ve had the required Xenobiology classes, of course,” he says, moving the scissors with careful, focused precision.  “But these days it’s all scans and holographic projections, and what does that tell you about a person, about a _species_?  Sweet fuck all, that’s what.”  The underwear is next to go, and then the man is completely bare, a blank canvas from which McCoy will create a masterpiece.  “I’ll tell you a secret.  You want to know someone?  _Really_ know someone?”  His eyes scan the body laid out before him, and he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as he brings his gaze up to meet the Orion’s.  “You’ve gotta get inside ‘em.”

He winks, and turns back to his instruments for a quick once-over.

“They thought the same thing back on ancient Earth,” he says, his voice brightly conversational again.  “Every damned thing they learned about the human body was from opening people up and poking around in their innards.  Just kept going with it, too.  By the time they figured out how to split the atom they were still slicing people open with knives to figure out what was wrong with ‘em. 

“These days people say they those methods were backwards; practically savage.  But me, I wonder if maybe they weren’t on to something.”  He runs reverent fingers over the rib shears, his newest acquisition.  They’re in pristine condition, and hot excitement builds in his stomach at the thought of trying them out.  “I think maybe they knew more about what really makes people tick than we ever will with all our fancy scans.”

“If this is an interrogation,” the man says, and McCoy has to give credit where it’s due: his voice isn’t even shaking yet; “shouldn’t you be asking questions instead of monologuing?”

McCoy turns to blink at him, genuinely surprised.  He lets out a bashful laugh and hides it by running a hand over his chin, the skin on his palm tingling from the pass against his beard.  “Lord, no.  I don’t really have much of a head for politics and espionage and all that.  I’m just a simple country doctor; just a sawbones.  A tool just as surely as any of these are,” he says, gesturing to the tray.  “The Captain and Lieutenant Sulu will be doing the actual interrogating; this is just a warm-up act.  A little bit of encouragement for you to do your best when they get here.”

He retrieves a pair of gloves and pulls them on, enjoying the sharp snap they make, the sting against his wrists as he releases the edge.  He smiles down at his guest.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

He likes to start with the feet, because no one ever expects it.  McCoy remembers running barefoot through the tangle of woods outside of his grandparents’ home, remembers rocks and brambles that sliced at his feet until they bled, remembers how the pain lasted for weeks afterwards.  The feet are a good place to start.  But the face, the hands, the genitals; this is where they all anticipate his attentions, and the first slice of the scalpel between the Orion’s toes earns a scream that’s as much about surprise as it is about pain.  It’s like music, that first scream, the opening notes of an orchestra tuning up.

“I never really figured myself for a military man, you know,” McCoy says as he makes his next incisions.  He watches the man’s blood flow freely, staining the white cloth that covers the table beneath him.  His blood is the same bright green as Vulcans’, he notes, but thicker, as though it’s already congealing.  “I had my practice, had a wife and a little baby girl, and that was good enough for me.”

He takes a moment to wipe the blade of the scalpel.  “Now if I’m remembering my second-year lessons right,” he says, refocusing on the body beneath his hands, “your musculature should be about the same as a Human’s.”  He slides a hand under one of the Orion’s heels and lifts it gently.  “Which should mean that this—”  The scalpel slides quickly across the back of the exposed ankle.  As the severed tendon snaps up his calf beneath the skin the Orion’s scream is so powerful that it fades to silence after only a moment.  “—should hurt like hell,” McCoy finishes, his voice thick with satisfaction.

He severs the other tendon as well, for the sake of symmetry as well as thoroughness.  “We’ll try a couple of different methods of reattachment,” he says over the choking, desperate sounds the man is making.  “Compare and contrast.”

Blood is flowing freely, and it tinges the air with an acrid tang.  That’s different, too, he thinks: the smell.  Part of him wishes that Nurse Chapel were there to take dictation on his findings.  She’s all cool professionalism and keen scientific interest, and he’s never worked with a nurse who meshes with him better than she does.  But Captain’s orders say that the CMO is the only one allowed in with a new prisoner during the first examination.  Christine will be in to close afterwards; he can discuss his observations with her then.

“Where was I?” he murmurs to himself.  He searches his memory, backtracking through his thoughts until he finds his place again.  “That’s right, Georgia.  I’ll bet you’re wondering how I went from that life to this one.  Especially since I don’t much care for the idea of speeding through a goddamn vacuum in a glorified tin can.  Wouldn’t have been my first choice, obviously.  But my marriage went south, and everything just started to go to shit after that.”

The thought of his ex-wife makes him want to go for the neck, to carve the vocal cords from the man’s throat.  But even if he could manage to have his patient awake and keep him from bleeding out, the Captain would be pissed as hell.  He opts for the chest, instead, eager to try out his new toy. 

Despite his excitement he’s careful as he skirts a razor-thin line, searching out that perfect measure of pain that will agonize without the Orion finding the relief of unconsciousness.  Cautious as he slices a long line up the center of the chest, skin and muscle parting easily beneath the blade.  The retractor is applied slowly, eased into the opening and spread with deliberate care until the ribcage is visible.

“The lawyers gave me a choice,” McCoy says, picking up the rib shears.  “I could go to prison, likely spend the rest of my life behind bars.  Or I could enlist.  They needed doctors, you see, ones who were already practicing so they didn’t have to go to that expense on top of putting them through their military training.  Not really much of a choice, right?  I signed up, and let me tell you what, it saved my life in more ways than one.”

The rib shears are tricky, he quickly sees.  Though the snap of bones is pleasant—almost as pleasant as the way the man beneath the blades tries to arch and squirm and twist away, almost as satisfying as the screech that catches in his throat and the tears and saliva that pour down his face—the edges are sharp and ragged.  Easy to catch yourself on one of those points, he thinks, and reminds himself to watch his hands.  He moves slowly, giving pain and terror the chance to fade slightly before he cuts through the next rib.

“’Course, I never figured I’d end up on an actual ship; not in the long run.” 

He adjusts the retractor, holding the chest cavity open as he peers inside.  Beneath the frantically beating heart is a second, vestigial one.  McCoy wonders what would happen if it were to be removed, but that will have to wait. 

“I’d do the required initial tour, sure,” he says, leaving the man’s chest gaping open as he turns his attention to the right hand fisted on the table.  “But after that I thought I might score a teaching job and keep my feet on the ground where they belonged.  Then the mess with the Narada happened, and the next thing I know Jim Kirk is saying he wants me for his CMO.  Starfleet being inclined to give him most anything he asked for, they sure as hell weren’t gonna deny him one cynical old doctor.  Hell, they even let him convince them to give Nero to the Vulcans, sort of a ‘sorry your planet imploded’ kind of deal.  Word is Spock took three weeks’ leave for the event, and that’s why it took him so long to get his ass on board.

“It’s a bit of a shame about Nero, really.  Another one of those ‘hack it with a sword’ types, but still.”  McCoy leans over the table, his voice conspiratorial.  “I would’ve loved to see what made him tick, y’know?”

He has the skin peeled back from the knuckles by the time the man starts to babble.  Nonsense at first, pleas for mercy interspersed between thick wet sobs.  Then he switches over to Orion and McCoy stops even pretending to listen.  There’s no point; he doesn’t have the first clue what’s being said even if he could be bothered to care.  Until one word catches his ear again and again, filtering through his concentrated study of tissue and veins and thick, syrupy blood.

Not long after that he peels away his blood-soaked gloves and comms for Christine to come and close the patient up, and steps into his office to make his call to the Captain.  He pours himself a bourbon to complement the tingling warmth that always spreads through his body at the end of a satisfying session.  No point in living, after all, if you didn’t take the time to enjoy some of the finer things.  Settled in his chair, he takes a pleasant moment to savor the quiet order of his desk and files, a delightful contrast with the noise and mess beyond his door.  Then, moving almost lazily, he reaches out to initiate the call.

“Bones,” Kirk acknowledges when his face appears on the monitor.  Blue eyes flicker down to the glass in McCoy’s hands and a smirk tilts one corner of his mouth.  “All finished, I take it?  How’s our patient?”

“He’ll live,” McCoy says dryly.  “Christine’s closing as we speak.”

Kirk winces dramatically.  “That seems cruel, even for you,” he chastises, and McCoy laughs.

“Seemed like the least I could do for her, since she’s not allowed in on the procedure herself.”

“Remind me never to piss you off, Bones.”

“I do that daily.”

It’s Kirk’s turn to chuckle.  “When will you be ready for us?”

“Give him a couple of hours.  We can get the worst of it healed by then, but we’ll leave the more superficial stuff as a reminder for him to consider.”  He thinks of slim green feet, pulped and bloody, and smiles to himself.  The expression fades as quickly as it appears.  “You might want to do this one on your own though, Jim.  Sounds like what he’s got is gonna be need-to-know.”

“Yeah?”  Kirk leans forward, obviously intrigued.  It’s not often that McCoy ventures an opinion like this.  “What makes you say that?”

McCoy hesitates.  This is as secure a channel as it’s possible to get, but there are never guarantees on a ship full of geniuses.  “He was speaking Orion most of the time, so I can’t be sure.  But I’m pretty sure I caught a thing or two about Vulcans in there somewhere.”

Kirk suddenly goes very, very still.  “Anything about our Vulcan?”

“No idea,” McCoy shrugs.  “But if not it’s a hell of a coincidence.”

He can practically hear the gears turning in the Captain’s head, see possibilities weighed and measured and discarded and examined behind bright blue eyes.  Then, “Have him ready for me in an hour,” and the screen goes blank.

McCoy sighs and sips at his bourbon.  He’ll finish, then go prod Christine along.  It will, at least, give him someone to talk to.


End file.
